Dream Child
by dragonpearlz
Summary: When Valjean has fever dreams, Cosette can only care for him when he doesn't know she's doing so.


The moisture in the air was so thick it could be wrung into a glass. ValJean heaved a breath and reached clumsily for the glass of water that he kept by his bedside. He swore under his breath and immediately pardoned himself to God for his crudity. He held his breath for a moment, feeling a familiar tightness in his chest. It wasn't often that he took ill, but when the winds turned colder, but before the humidity had left the air, something always seemed to settle in his chest.

He curled in on himself, pulling a handkerchief out from under his pillow and clasping it tightly over his mouth. He released a few harsh coughs, muffling them into his handkerchief. He hoped that Cosette was sleeping soundly. She worried about him enough as it was. He didn't want her to have to care for him as though he was infirm as well.

**LM**

Cosette sat awake in her room. Although the walls were sturdy, she could hear her papa snoring through them. While he had started snoring more as he aged, he only snored loud enough to rattle the shutters when he was getting sick. She had known since she was a child that he was more likely to fall ill when the winter winds mingled with the summer's humidity. Her challenge arose when it came to caring for him.

Her papa was a considerate man, who always put her wants and needs before his own. But, he resisted whenever she tried to do the same. She cringed as she heard him cough. Not long before the clock had chimed two. She couldn't bear to wait until sunrise to bring him tea and work to bring down the fever she was sure was seizing hold of his generally unshakable frame.

**LM**

ValJean grumbled, lost in a fever dream. Sweat poured down his face as, even in his sleep, he worked to repress his coughing.

Cosette entered his room softly. She knew that were he not ill, she would not be permitted into his room. This was his private space. His sanctuary. In return for respect of his privacy, he respected hers – always making certain that she had her own room and privacy, even when she was a child.

She balanced a tray with a pot of fresh tea and a cup, a few delicately folded handkerchiefs which had been infused with a bit of the lavender she had harvested earlier in the year, and a glass of water that she had pulled from the well. She knew that she was not to go out at night, but she doubted very many people would be about at such an hour. As it was, she had not seen anyone anyway.

With the grace of years of practice, she poured him a cup of tea, wishing she had a spot of milk to add to it. While she could not drink such a concoction, she had observed him enjoying it during one of their frequent trips to England.

"No, Javert… I will not," he mumbled.

There was that name again. Javert. He always mumbled it during his nightmares. Sometimes he pleaded for mercy. Sometimes, he yelled it with a ferocity that he had never used with her. She wondered who this Javert fellow was, and why he haunted her papa's dreams so completely. But, she could never ask him such a thing. To do so would be a intrusion into his private thoughts. If he wanted to share those stories with her, he would have already.

He coughed again, his burly arm falling haphazardly over his face as he tried to repress his symptoms. She wondered what would cause him to be so aware of himself that he would try to be a gentleman even in his sleep. She assumed that he had very proper parents or a very proper governess.

As she put the glass of water next to the tea, her foot bumped something on the floor. She smiled sadly as she realized that he had already knocked over a glass of water. Wetting one of the handkerchiefs, she sat on the edge of his bed.

"Shh, papa," she soothed, pressing the wet cloth to his lips. She smiled as he ceased mumbling and started to suck on the cloth. _He must have been so thirsty_, she thought as she rewet the cloth.

Suddenly, he folded in half with a violent sneeze, which sprayed freely over his sheets.

With the ease of practice, she caught him by the shoulders and tenderly laid him back on his pillows.

"Cosette?" he asked, looking at her blearily.

"No," she answered, quietly. "Just a figment of your dreams." She smiled sweetly at him.

He smiled back; his love for her shining in his eyes. "No. My dreams are… dark. You – heh – you are not." He quickly snatched up his handkerchief again and sneezed wetly into it. He repressed a few chesty coughs. He smiled as Cosette passed him his tea. "You should not be in here," he said, pushing himself into a sitting position.

She smiled mischievously. "As though I could leave you in such a state."

"But you must," he said as he sipped his tea.

She made a non-committal noise. "Drink your tea, papa," she said, leaving no room for argument.

He minded her tone and did as she instructed. His teacup quickly drained, he handed the cup back to her.

She replaced it on the side table and helped him lay back down. "Rest," she instructed, pouring a handful of water onto a handkerchief and putting it on his still fevered brow. "You'll feel better tomorrow, papa. Nothing but a cough, you'll see."

He smiled, repressing a few coughs. He let sleep overtake him again, allowing himself to feel cared for and safe. It was a testament to how high his fever was, but he felt blessed to have such a wonderful ward.

The next morning, Cosette awoke early to get ValJean's tea ready. If she had done it properly, he would not know whether her assistance had been a dream or a reality.

"Good morning, Cosette," he said, as he came into the dining room. He held his arms out to her and she stepped into them, giving him a morning hug. She pressed her lips to his cheek and felt for a fever. Just as she had suspected, there was none.

"Good morning, papa," she returned, pulling away and getting him his tea.

He coughed heavily.

"Are you well?" she asked, lightly, as though she truly did not know better.

He looked at her oddly. "I am. Just a cough."

"It is that time of year," she said, making conversation.

He only grunted at her in response, sipping his tea as he looked at her thoughtfully.

She smiled as she poured her own tea, but did not answer any questions that he did not ask.


End file.
